


Together

by AutisticWriter



Category: Brian Pern (TV)
Genre: 1970s, Accidents, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Appendicitis, Arguing, Back Pain, Bickering, Concerts, Crying, Dated Fashion, Doctors & Physicians, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fainting, Fever, First Aid, Friendship, Gen, Guitars, Happy Ending, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, John Farrow Swears a Lot, Music, Musicians, Nausea, Needles, Nighttime, Nurses, Pain, Phone Calls & Telephones, Pre-Canon, Recovery, Sick Character, Sickfic, Sleep Deprivation, Surgery, Swearing, Vomiting, Winter, Worry, paramedics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-01
Updated: 2017-04-07
Packaged: 2018-10-13 15:17:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10516356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AutisticWriter/pseuds/AutisticWriter
Summary: The five members of Thotch and their manager struggle to cope when Pat becomes seriously ill.





	1. Chapter 1

When Pat Quid woke up, he was immediately aware of how much his stomach hurt. Rolling onto his back, he stared up at the hotel room ceiling as he prodded his stomach, wondering why it was aching. He might have expected to have stomach ache if he was hung over, but he hadn’t got drunk last night. So why did it hurt?

It was only just getting light, so Pat knew he had a couple of hours until he had to get up. Sighing, he curled up under his duvet and hoped his stomach ache would have gone by the time he woke up.

\---

The next time Pat awoke, it was to a rush of cold air that made him feel like he was inside a freezer. He shivered and sat up in bed – and that was when his stomach cramped, reminding him that the ache hadn’t gone. If anything, it was worse. His entire abdomen was sore and tender when he prodded it with his fingers, and throbbed whenever he breathed deeply or moved his legs too quickly.

Still shivering, Pat discovered the source of the cold when he saw his duvet on the floor; he had obviously kicked it off while he was asleep. Leaning over the side of the bed, he pulled the duvet back onto the bed and wrapped it around himself. It immediately made him warmer, but he didn’t stop shivering.

As he shivered, Pat checked the clock. It was almost seven o’clock, so he was going to have to get up in a couple of minutes. It was at times like this that he hated touring; seven in the morning was far too early to get up. And all he had to look forward to was hours on the tour bus, bored out of his mind and watching Brian get travel sick, before spending hours on stage regardless of how ill he felt. Yes, being a musician was overrated.

Still, he knew he couldn’t back out. Thotch was his life, and he couldn’t quit no matter how shit he felt. And it was only a stomach ache; he was sure people had performed feeling far worse. He was just being overdramatic.

Suppressing a groan as his stomach jolted, Pat hauled himself out of bed and got ready to leave. As he pulled on his jeans and jumper, Pat caught sight of his reflection in the big mirror on the wall. He was quite pale, with dark bags under his eyes, and his hair was all matted.

He brushed his hair and washed his face, but he still looked like crap. And all Pat could do was take a deep breath and hope no one noticed.

\---

With the exception of Brian, who was always late (“The annoying bastard,” Tony muttered), Pat was the last person to get onto the tour bus. John Farrow made a disproving noise and shook his head as Pat slumped into a seat (the action jarred his stomach, and Pat bit back a wince), muttering something Pat didn’t hear. But then John looked at him properly, and frowned.

“You all right, Pat?”

Pat forced himself to smile. “Yeah, of course I am. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I dunno,” John said. “You just look a bit pale...”

“He always looks pale, John!” Brian called as he got onto the bus, carrying his travel sickness kit. “That’s what you get when you never go outside.”

As John raised his eyebrows and moaned at Brian for taking so long, Pat leaned his head against the window, glad to be being left alone. He really wasn’t in the mood for socialising.

\---

Pat didn’t look right. Tony had known Pat for long enough to know when there was something wrong with him, and he felt like that right now. He was washed out and pale, and even quieter than usual. A few times Tony thought he was asleep, but he was sure Pat was actually awake, and just pretending to sleep so people would leave him alone.

He hoped Pat wasn’t coming down with something. Tony tried to tell himself he only cared about the money they would lose if they had to cancel the concert, but he knew that, deep down, he was a bit worried about his friend.

\---

As usual, their journey to that night’s venue was repetitive and mundane: Brian threw up twice, Tony and Mike had a row about something or other, John got stressed when they got stuck in traffic, John the bass player sat on his own at the back of the bus and tuned his bass guitar, and Pat sat by himself, listening to music on the radio. The only difference was how Pat felt.

His stomach was getting worse. His whole abdomen was throbbing, so now even breathing made it hurt. The only way Pat kept himself from audibly groaning was taking slow breathes and telling himself he would be feeling better by the time they arrived at the venue.

Although he wasn’t sure he believed that.

\---

“Are you sure you’re all right, Pat?” John said as he watched Pat slip his hand under his jumper and rub his stomach.

Pat raised his eyebrows. “ _Yes_ , John.”

“Are you _sure_?” John insisted, not believing him.

“Well, if you must know, I have a slight stomach ache,” Pat said snippily. “But it’s nothing. I’m fine.”

John nodded, hoping Pat was right. An ill guitarist was really the last thing he needed right now.

\---

As soon as Pat found his dressing room, he locked the door and crashed out on the sofa. He couldn’t stop shivering, and was having to tightly grit his jaw to stop his teeth chattering. Although now he was alone he didn’t have to do that anymore, and it was a relief to relax his aching jaw.

He lay on his back and stared up at the cracked ceiling, glad to have a few minutes on his own without the others all harassing him. He knew they were only concerned, but it was so annoying to have people checking up on him every five seconds, especially when there was probably nothing wrong.

Pat checked his watch, sighing when he saw his little rest was over. If he didn’t hurry up, John would be banging on his door and telling him to ‘fucking hurry up’. So he forced himself to get up and get dressed into his stage clothes. Unlike Brian, Pat always wore quite simple clothing onstage. Today’s outfit was no exception; all he had to put on was a pair of blue denim flares and an oversized striped shirt.

But getting changed was far more difficult than it had been this morning. As he raised his leg to put his foot into the leg of his flared jeans, the sudden pressure against his stomach made him want to vomit. His shoes were even worse, especially when his trembling fingers fumbled and found it almost impossible to do his laces.

As he pulled his shirt over his head, the shivers got a lot worse, his exposed skin covered in goose bumps. Pat had a quick look at his stomach; it looked a bit puffier than usual, but he assumed that was just bloating. He quickly pulled his shirt back down, hoping being covered up might make him stop shivering. It didn’t.

He had to leave his jeans unbuttoned, his belt very lose, as he couldn’t cope with the pressure on his abdomen otherwise. Having his jeans slung low on his hips made him look like a prat, but he was past caring.

All he wanted was for the concert to be over, so he could go back to the hotel and rest.

\---

As he joined John, Mike and Brian backstage, John suddenly grabbed his arm. Pat jumped at the unexpected contact and pulled his arm away, annoyed.

“How’s your stomach now, Pat?” John asked.

Pat sighed and raised his eyebrows. “Honestly, John. I’m fine. It’s much better now.”

John smiled, but Pat knew he didn’t believe him.

\---

As Pat went out onto the stage and picked up his guitar, part of him wondered why the hell he was doing this. He felt dreadful, and longed to be curled up in bed in his hotel room. But then he remembered how much Thotch meant to him, and he knew he couldn’t let his band down.

The stage lights never usually bothered him, but they seemed much brighter now, the strobe lights quickly giving him a headache. The roar of the cheering crowd was overwhelming and made his ears ring until he struggled to hear at all. Luckily, they soon quietened down, leaving Pat able to hear his heart beating in his ears.

The first song they played was ‘Black Christmas’. It may have seemed a bit random, but it was December after all. It went surprisingly well, despite the slight distraction of sweat running down his back. Pat thought he might just have been heating up under the stage lights – but then why was he still shivering?

They then moved onto ‘Onion Divorce’. Pat hated this song at the best of times; it was far too long, and was often just an excuse for Brian to prance around on stage like an idiot. Still, he tried his best to ignore his stomach ache and played note after note after note, trying to lose himself in the music.

And he sort of did... until his stomach suddenly cramped, the pain shooting through his abdomen. The sudden jolt made him jump, and Pat’s fingers (already so sweaty that he was struggling to keep hold of the pick) slipped off of the guitar strings. This made a hideous noise, fucking up the chord he had been playing, and also momentarily fucking up the song.

Biting his bottom lip to cope with the pain, Pat desperately tried to get back on track. But his fingers were trembling and the stomach pain was so bad it even hurt when he inhaled. Part of him wanted to cry, but Pat wasn’t going to let himself break down, especially not on stage. So he just blinked rapidly and tried to regain his focus, a task he found extremely difficult.

\---

From his position at the back of the stage, Mike had a clear view of the rest of the band (and he often watched them to pass the time when they were doing solos). So he immediately looked at Pat when he heard him fuck up on of his chords, wondering what he was doing. He could only see Pat’s back, but Mike instantly noticed that Pat was looking rather wobbly all of a sudden, his legs trembling as he stumbled on the spot.

Mike wondered if he felt dizzy. And, if he was dizzy, he wondered whether Pat was going to keel over. And then he wondered if this was all to do with that bloody stomach ache. Because he was certain a simple stomach ache couldn’t make you feel that bad.

\---

Pat wanted to kick himself for fucking up the chord. He’d been playing this song for three years, for fuck’s sake. How could he have got it wrong? He hoped he wasn’t going to get yelled at by the others for making a mistake; what with his lack of sleep and ever intensifying stomach pain, Pat wasn’t sure if he could take criticism without breaking down.

His legs were starting to wobble again, so he locked his knees out so they didn’t have a chance to buckle. He tightened his grip on his pick and guitar, his palms soaked in sweat, his fingers trembling, his heart racing until he could hear the palpitations.

His stomach ache was dying down again, but seemed to have levelled out at a slightly higher level of pain than before. But, whilst the pain had settled, he was starting to feel very, very sick. Pat wanted to sigh, wondering what else his body was going to do to him.

\---

After Pat missed a chord for the third time, John began to wonder if there was something wrong. Confused, John wandered away from the wings until he found the sound technician, a young man sat by the electronics wearing chunky headphones. He mimed taking the headphones off, and, obviously understanding him, the sound man pulled them away from one of his ears.

“What’s the problem, Mr Farrow?” he said, his Geordie accent as thick as ever.

“Is there something wrong with Pat’s amp?” he asked.

“I don’t think so. Why?”

“Because I keep hearing gaps where Pat should’ve been playing chords, except he wasn’t. I was just wondering if the amp might not be working properly, or something like that.”

The technician frowned. “I don’t think so, Mr Farrow. The amp sounds perfect to me. I think the source of the problem is Pat himself.”

“What?” John said, also frowning. “Do you mean he’s dropping chords?”

“He must be. That’s the only explanation.”

Muttering his thanks, John went back to the wings, totally confused. If the sound man was right, and he probably was, then why was Pat not playing properly. If this was all because of that fucking stomach ache, John knew he was going to kill the lying bastard.

\---

The nausea was getting worse. Pat’s stomach churned horribly as he stood on the stage, keeping his knees locked out and his mouth clamped shut just in case he was going to vomit. He had to swallow hard as vomit rose in his throat, stomach acid burning the base of his throat and his mouth filling with spit.

He was incredibly grateful that this song had no backing vocals (or lead vocals the time Brian forgot the words and screamed his way through the entire performance), because that meant he didn’t need to open his mouth. And he really didn’t trust himself to open his mouth right now.

Pat hoped that he wouldn’t throw up on stage; he knew he wouldn’t be able to cope with the eternal humiliation that would cause.

When was this fucking concert going to end?

\---

A wave of relief went through his tense chest when the song ended; the next song was ‘Rock This Nation’, a song he had written and so was certain he could play it without messing up.

Knowing he had about ten seconds before the song started, Pat quickly wiped his sweat-soaked hands on his jeans, before getting back into position.

To Pat’s upmost surprise, he did manage to perform the whole song without making any mistakes. And that was especially lucky considering the sweat soaking through his shirt and the salty spit in his mouth and the never ending nausea flooding through his agonising abdomen. In fact, if he didn’t feel so awful, he probably would have been rather proud of himself.

\---

Tony was immensely relieved when the interval came around; he was desperate for a drink, and his legs were killing him. As the audience applauded, he made his way off stage, noting that Mike was staring at Pat. Confused, Tony followed Mike’s gaze, and saw why Mike looked so concerned.

Pat looked worse than ever, his muscles visibly quivering with fatigue and shivers, his face washed out and sweaty, huge sweat patches visible on his shirt, and his hands pressed almost protectively against his abdomen. The moment they were off stage, Tony and Mike approached Pat, who was now leaning against a wall, looking like he was going to faint.

“Are you all right, Pat?” he asked.

“You look dreadful,” Mike added. “Does your stomach still hurt?”

Pat nodded. Tony watched him swallow hard before he opened his mouth to mumble, “Yeah, it does.”

His voice was weak and shaky, nothing like his normal voice.

“What’re you lot doing?” Brian said, coming over to their little huddle. “Don’t you want to come to the dressing room? John’s bought loads of booze...” he trailed off as his eyes focused on Pat, who somehow looked even paler. “Fucking hell, you look awful.”

Pat opened his mouth, looking like he wanted to say something sarcastic, but instead belching slightly. And then Tony saw panic in Pat’s eyes just before he doubled over and puked all over the floor.

Instinctively, Tony jumped backwards, wanting to protect his shoes.

“Ugh!” Brian groaned as he copied Tony, looking a bit sick himself.

“Pat?” Mike said tentatively.

Pat ignored him (or maybe just didn’t hear him), wrapping his arms around his abdomen as he continued to vomit. His puke was mostly bile, which made sense, considering that Tony hadn’t seen him eat much at all today. Slowly, Pat sank to the floor, bracing a hand against the ground as he toppled forwards, vomiting again and again. Tony could hear him groaning, and he sounded like he was in agony.

“Pat?” Mike said again, a little louder this time.

“John!” Brian yelled, rushing off presumably to find their manager.

Hearing Brian shout seemed to wake Tony up. Despite feeling sick at the sight of Pat vomiting, Tony crouched down in front of Pat (far enough away that Pat couldn’t puke on him) and looked at his face. He was actually grey, but his cheeks were flushed from the effort of throwing up. What disturbed Tony the most were the tears leaking from behind Pat’s tightly closed eyelids. Pat was crying. Fucking hell.

Mike, clearly not as grossed out as Tony, sat down next to Pat and began to rub circles in his heaving back.

“It’s all right, mate,” Mike said, clearly attempting to sound soothing.

Tony heard footsteps, and turned his head as Brian and John came around the corner.

“Fucking hell,” John said as he saw Pat, his eyes wide. Rushing towards the three of them, he crouched down on Pat’s other side. “You said you were feeling better, Pat.”

Pat had finally stopped vomiting, but was now left dry heaving and spitting out disgusting coloured spit. He groaned again, his breathing shuddering, his eyes still screwed up.

“I w-was,” he said weakly. “Until I went out on st-stage—”

Pat cut himself off as he gagged, but he wasn’t sick this time. He pressed his hand against his stomach and groaned, letting out a slow, shaky breath.

“Right, I don’t care what you all say, we are cancelling this fucking concert,” John said, standing up sharply.

“What?” Brian cried, sounding mortally offended. “But we’ve still got the second act to do. What about the fans?”

“Fuck the fans,” John said, and Tony almost laughed at how fucking blunt he was. “Pat looks like shit, and probably feels it too. There’s no way he can play, especially if he keeps fucking up like he did earlier.”

Tony saw Pat’s ears flush; he obviously felt awful for messing up those chords.

“Does anyone have any objections?” John said, folding his arms across his chest and giving them his ‘don’t mess with me’ look.

Brian looked like he wanted to argue, but he didn’t say anything. Tony was secretly rather glad to be avoiding the rest of the show (he was knackered and really couldn’t be arsed), but he tried to look a bit annoyed as he sighed and shook his head. Mike and John didn’t argue, and, as Pat sighed in defeat, their manager nodded his head, looking rather pleased with himself.

“Right then,” he said. “Let’s get you back to the hotel, Pat.”


	2. Chapter 2

Most of the journey back to the hotel was a blur. Pat remembered being hauled to his feet and the sickening pain that the sudden movement caused, and he knew he probably would have thrown up had his stomach not been completely empty.

Then John and Brian were holding onto his arms, guiding him through the building. Pat had to focus all of his energy on stopping his legs buckling; his knees trembled, and, with every step he took, the pain in his abdomen was so intense it made the wobbling even worse. It was around then that he noticed that his stomach ache was slowly moving down his abdomen, but he didn’t pay it any attention.

Eventually, they made it to the car, and John and Brian were helping him into the back seat. Pat ended up sitting between John and Tony, and someone placed a bucket on his lap in case he was sick again. He slumped against Tony, his head lolling on his shoulder, trying to ignore the cramps and the nausea and the embarrassment of throwing up in front of the others.

He knew the others were staring at him, but he didn’t care. At least none of them tried to talk to him, and for that he was very grateful.

\---

As they drove back to the hotel, Mike found himself sat opposite Pat. His friend looked absolutely awful, to the point he didn’t even know how to describe him. But he did know he’d never seen anyone looking as bad as Pat did right them.

Pat had his eyes shut as he rested his sweaty head on Tony’s shoulder, but Mike doubted that he was asleep. Considering what had happened backstage, he was sure Pat was feeling far too ill to go to sleep.

But even though he knew Pat was awake, Mike (and the others for that matter) didn’t try to talk to him. He knew Pat needed to rest right now, so Mike didn’t break the silence.

\---

With Mike and Tony’s help, John eased Pat onto his bed. Pat groaned at the movement and curled up on his side, holding his stomach. John pressed the back of his hand against Pat’s forehead; he was still running a fever.

Behind him, John knew the rest of the band was hanging around awkwardly, not knowing what to say or do. To be honest, John didn’t really know what to do; he didn’t have much experience with illness, certainly not with the ill person being stubborn as Pat no-I’m-fine-to-do-the-concert Quid.

“Is there anything we can get you, Pat?” he asked.

“Um... I’d quite like s-some water,” Pat mumbled, his voice croaky.

“We can get you some water,” John said, smiling at Pat before shooting Mike a look.

Mike obviously understood, because he hurried over to the mini bar and grabbed a bottle of water. He passed it to John, who broke the seal before handing it to Pat, not trusting Pat’s shaky hands to manage it.

Pat smiled weakly, obviously thanking John without saying anything. He tried to raise the bottle to his lips without sitting up, which naturally resulted in him spilling quite a lot of water down his shirt.

“Shit!” they both muttered as John grabbed the bottle from Pat’s trembling hands and put it on the bedside table.

“That wasn’t very thought out, was it, Pat?” Brian said as Pat feebly brushed the water off of his sweaty shirt.

Pat didn’t say anything, but he stuck his fingers up at Brian. John grinned as Brian feigned offense, glad that Pat still seemed to be acting like himself. Hopefully this was just a twenty-four-hour bug, and Pat would be all right in the morning.

Although John wasn’t sure how much of him actually believed that theory.

\---

John was the last person to leave Pat’s bedroom later that night. He made sure that Pat had a bottle of water and enough pillows to be comfortable through the night, and told Pat several times that he could come and get him if he started feeling worse. He also checked Pat’s temperature again, and was relieved to find that it wasn’t any higher.

As he was about to open the door, something occurred to him. John turned back around and said, “Do you want to change into your pyjamas?”

Pat, still dressed in his damp, sweaty stage clothes, shook his head. “’M all right.”

John raised his eyebrows, feeling a little jolt of anxiety in his stomach. “If you’re sure. Well, goodnight, Pat.”

As Pat mumbled his half-hearted goodnight, John headed back to his own room. He was somewhat absentminded as he pulled on his pyjamas and got into bed, his mind focused on the younger man in the room two doors down. Because, for all he tried to reassure himself that Pat just had a bug and would be all right in the morning, he couldn’t shake the feeling that this was actually rather serious.

\---

The pain was unbearable. As Pat curled up on his side, his whole body shaking as shivers ran through him, he was certain that he had never been in so much pain in his life. The constant, deep burning right above his hip felt like his stomach was on fire whist the all-too-frequent cramps made him feel like he was being stabbed as the pain shot through his already burning abdomen. His throat burred as he swallowed back vomit. Pat had no idea how he still had enough in his stomach to actually vomit, but the nausea persisted nevertheless. And, despite the humiliation it caused him, tears wouldn’t stop running down his face.

Another cramp wracked his body, and Pat had to bite his lip to stop himself screaming. The pain made him heave, and his mouth filled with vomit. He tried to swallow it, but he couldn’t. His cheeks bulged, his lips straining as he clamped them shut, and Pat knew he would have to move fast to stop himself vomiting all over the bed. Although moving quickly wasn’t something he was exactly capable of right now.

With a disturbingly large amount of effort, Pat hauled himself into a sitting position. Pain exploded though his abdomen and he grimaced, trying to swallow but just ending up with even more vomit in his mouth. His tongue was starting to burn. Breathing heavily made his stomach worse, so he had to settle with quick, shallow breaths as he tried to wait for the pain to die down – except it didn’t; several minutes after sitting up, the pain was as worse as ever.

Groaning, Pat managed to get to his feet. His legs, weak and wobbly, almost buckled and he stumbled into the wall. Now he was out from under the duvet, his shivers returned; despite his burning fever, Pat felt goose bumps erupt up and down his arms.

Somehow, he made it down the corridor to the toilet, one hand pressed against his mouth, the other braced against the wall so he didn’t fall over. His legs shook like he’d just run a fucking marathon, sweat running down his back, his mouth burning as he held back vomit. And, despite the embarrassment it caused him, Pat could feel tears dribbling down his cheeks.

The moment he reached the bathroom, Pat switched on the light and fell to his knees, his legs giving way. He crawled across the floor, trying to reach the toilet before he threw up. But he didn’t make it in time. As a violent retch made his stomach scream with pain, Pat opened his mouth... and then he was vomiting all over the linoleum floor, some vomit splattering his top, before managing to get his head over the toilet. Every heave made his stomach cramp with even more intensity, the stomach acid burning his mouth, his breathing shuddering as he vomited and sobbed through the pain.

It hurt so much. He wanted to get help, but he couldn’t move. For the first time since becoming a musician, Pat found himself longing to be back at home with his parents, for his mother to hold him and soothe him as he vomited. And, as he puked again, the pain making every breath pure agony, Pat knew he would rather be anywhere than here.

\---

Brian couldn’t sleep. He didn’t really want to admit it, but he was pretty sure because he was worried about Pat. They may have bickered a lot, but Pat was his oldest friend, and he did care about him, no matter what he sometimes said. And to see him throwing up earlier was not just nauseating, but downright disturbing. It was especially distressing to know that Pat made it through the first half of their concert feeling that ill. The poor sod.

Eventually, Brian gave up trying to sleep and decided to get up. Leaving his room and heading to the toilet (trust John to get them a hotel without en suite bathrooms), Brian considered knocking on John’s door just to spite him, but stopped himself. As he approached the bathroom, Brian saw a strip of light coming under the bathroom door, casting a strange shaped shadow on the patterned carpet. There must have been someone in there.

Getting closer, he saw that the door was actually agar; the person in the loo had obviously forgotten to lock the door. He was about to turn around and go to the toilet at the other end of the corridor when he heard something that made him stop. It sounded like someone was vomiting. Creeping closer, Brian clearly heard heaves and the shuddering breaths of someone throwing up into a toilet. And then he heard the person let out a sigh, and he realised who it was.

“Pat?” he said, pushing the door open.

Pat was hunched up on the floor beside the toilet, his arms draped across the toilet seat, his head hanging over the bowl. His hair was sticking to his face with sweat, and he looked grey and greasy as he gagged, tears once again running down his face. He was still wearing his sweaty stage clothes; he obviously never got changed out of them. He jumped as he heard Brian’s voice, and the action obviously jarred his stomach, because he started sobbing louder and puked again.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” Brian said, moving closer.

Just like earlier, the sight of Pat vomiting was making him feel sick, but Brian tried to ignore his nausea and approached his friend. Avoiding the vomit on the floor, he kneeled down beside Pat, watching helplessly as his friend cried and puked and groaned.

“Fucking hell, Pat,” he said under his breath.

To Brian’s surprise, Pat suddenly reached out and grasped his wrist. His hand was drenched in sweat and his fingers were shaking, but his grip was surprisingly strong.

“It h-hurts so m-much, Bri,” Pat said, his voice shaky and coming out as a gasp as he used a nickname Brian hadn’t heard him use since they were both at Stowe.

Not knowing what else to do, Brian moved his other arm and started to rub his friend’s heaving back. Pat stuck his head back over the toilet and vomited again, his rasping breathes echoing as his head hung over the toilet bowl.

“Where does it hurt?”

His eyes screwed up, Pat gestured roughly at his right hip. “’Bout there.”

Brian felt dreadful. He didn’t know what to do. Pat was clearly in agony, and he was helpless to do anything to make him feel better. And then, just like earlier, the answer came to him.

“I’ll be back in a minute, Pat,” Brian said, and, with some reluctance, he let go of his friend and rushed out of the room.

There was only one person he knew who could actually deal with this, and, thankfully, he was sleeping in the room next to his.

\---

As he was awoken by someone pounding on his door, John prepared himself to yell at the members of the band to leave him the fuck alone and go to sleep. The knocking persisted, so John dragged himself out of bed and opened the door, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand.

The door swung open to reveal Brian stood in the doorway. The look of terror on his face made John suddenly a lot more awake. Brian was too shit an actor for that look to be fake.

“Wha’s’a matta?” he said through a yawn.

“It’s Pat,” Brian babbled. “He’s got worse. He’s really ill. He’s in agony. I don’t know what’s wrong with his stomach, but he’s dreadful.”

“Right, I’m coming,” John said, grabbing his dressing gown. “Where is he?”

“In the bathroom,” Brian said. “I’ll show you.”

John pulled on his dressing gown as he followed Brian down the corridor. Part of him didn’t want to see what Pat looked like, but he tried to ignore it. They reached the bathroom and John held his breath as he went inside.

“Fucking hell,” he muttered.

Poor Pat was curled up on the floor by the toilet, drenched in sweat, sobbing, with his arms wrapped around his stomach. The whole room stank of vomit, and there was a lot of it on the floor and Pat’s shirt as well as down the toilet.

“Pat?” he said, keeping his voice soft.

“Hurts,” Pat moaned, looking up at him; his face was contorted into an expression of pure agony.

“Is it still your stomach?”

Pat nodded and then groaned, screwing his eyes up. “Y-Yeah. B-But it’s moved... s-since earlier.”

Like he had done earlier, John pressed the backs of his fingers against Pat’s forehead. Pat flinched away from him, his fingers obviously feeling very cold against Pat’s hot skin.

“He’s burning up,” he said to Brian, feeling Pat’s skin burning beneath his fingers. “Help me get his clothes off, Brian.”

“But I’m c-cold,” Pat moaned.

“I know, but that’s just your fever. We need to cool you down,” John said, not wanting Pat to get heatstroke on top of this.

Pat didn’t look happy about it, but he let John and Brian ease his shirt and flares off of him, leaving Pat shivering in just his underpants. The movement must have jarred Pat’s stomach, because he cried out and began to sob again.

“F-Fuck,” he gasped, his voice hitching as he sobbed.

As John watched him cry, his eyes focused on Pat’s stomach. Just above his right hip, his skin was red and puffy, like there was swelling beneath it. And that was when he realised just how fucking serious this was.

“Brian, go and get Mike, Tony and John. Get Mike to call 999 and the other two to get Pat his toothbrush and some clean clothes and shit like that,” John said, using the Managerial Voice he reserved for serious situations.

Brian stared at him, his mouth slightly open. “999. You mean 999?”

“No, I mean the fucking area code for Inverness. No, of course I mean fucking 999!” John snapped. “He needs to go to hospital.”

“Hospital?” Pat mumbled, clearly alarmed.

“Yes, Pat,” he said, trying to keep his voice soft despite his anxiety and sudden surge of anger from snapping at Brian.

“Why?” Brian said. “What do you think’s wrong with him?”

“I think, and I might be wrong, but I think he’s got appendicitis.”

Brian suddenly stopped looking argumentative, and hurried out of the room to get the others without saying another word. Pat’s eyes were panicky as he stared at John, his arms wrapped around his abdomen.

“R-Really?” he said.

John nodded slowly. “Yes, Pat.”

Pat continued to stare at him, and then, gagging, he stuck his head over the toilet as he vomited yet again. Sighing, John did what he knew he was meant to do when someone was being sick, and began to rub circles against Pat’s back.

“It’s all right, mate,” he said, despite knowing there was nothing remotely all right about this.

\---

Tony didn’t expect to be awoken at two o’clock in the morning by Brian banging on his door, but here he was. He opened his door to find Brian looking utterly terrified, and Tony soon realised why.

“What the fuck are you doing, Brian?” he said, rubbing his tired eyes.

Clearly deciding not to break it to him gently, Brian simply took a deep breath and said, “Pat’s got appendicitis.”

“What?” Tony cried. Even with his limited medical knowledge, he knew that was fucking serious. “How?”

“I don’t know, but he has,” Brian said, sighing. “John said you need to pack him some overnight bag shit for him to take to hospital with him. Mike’s calling 999. You can get John to help you, but you need to hurry.”

“Right, I’ll go and do that,” Tony said, feeling slightly numb yet also wide awake. “Do you think he’ll be all right, Brian?”

Brian sighed again. “I honestly don’t know.”

\---

“’M scared, J-John,” Pat stammered through his cries, his voice hoarse from vomiting.

“I know, mate,” John said, rubbing Pat’s burning hot back. “We’re all scared. But you’ll be all right. We’ll get you to hospital and they’ll sort you out and you’ll feel better.”

John’s chest tightened, and he was certain he knew why. After all, he wasn’t even sure he was telling the truth. He had to hope, obviously, but he still didn’t know if they would be able to help Pat at this stage. But he didn’t tell Pat that, and simply smiled as Pat turned his head.

Pat stared at him, his eyes bloodshot, his eyelids red and puffy, his jaw swollen from puking, his cheeks bright red and slicked with tears, spit and snot, and John saw a flicker of hope in his eyes. Pat obviously believed him, and John knew he would have to be a completely heartless bastard to crush him right now. So he just smiled back and continued to rub his friend’s back.

\---

Half asleep and only partly dressed, Mike hurtled down the stairs and into the hotel lobby. Brian had been stammering quite badly, but Mike still got the gist of what he had said; he’d heard: ‘999’ and ‘fucking awful’ and ‘appendicitis’. And he knew that appendicitis was certainly a reason to be that panicky.

He skidded to a halt in front of the payphone, his bare feet squeaking on the linoleum floor, and punched three 9s into the phone. Mike tried to slow his breathing as the telephone rang, but he couldn’t quite catch his breath. And he was certain his rapid heart rate was just as much caused by anxiety as his sprint to the phone.

And he knew why he was so anxious, because he knew just how bad appendicitis could be. When he was young, his brother got appendicitis. And he died. He died in hospital, in their mother’s arms, of blood poisoning. He lost his little brother to that fucking infection.

And that was why Mike had to blink back tears as he told the ambulance dispatcher what was happening, because he couldn’t bear it if the same thing happened to Pat.


	3. Chapter 3

About ten minutes later, Tony found himself dressed in his jeans and pyjama top as he stood in the bathroom, watching Pat with wide eyes. He was half asleep, but he felt surprisingly alert. His friend looked even worse than he did earlier, and that was saying something.

He was holding Pat’s rucksack, and, on John’s orders, had spent the last five minutes stuffing it with any sort of crap he thought would constitute ‘overnight bag shit’, as Brian had so eloquently described it. John the bassist was stood beside him, holding Pat’s coat and shoes, both of which hadn’t fit in the bag.

It disturbed Tony in ways he couldn’t explain to see Pat, naked except for his underpants, curled up on the vomit-coved floor, sobbing hysterically as he cradled his stomach. Pat’s face was screwed up as he cried, his sobs catching in his throat and tears streaming down his flushed face. But it was somehow even more disturbing to see how worried John looked, as he knew it took a fair bit to stress out John Farrow.

John looked tense and panicked as he kneeled beside Pat, rubbing his back and talking to him in a soft tone Tony had never heard before. Maybe John only reserved it for people who weren’t annoying him, which explained why none of the band had ever heard it before.

He jumped when Mike burst into the room, whacking his elbow against the doorframe as he tried to squeeze past Tony and John. Mike hissed in pain and rubbed his elbow as he gasped for breath and approached John and Pat.

“I’ve called 999,” he said. “An ambulance should be here in fifteen minutes.”

“Cheers, mate,” John said, flashing him a weak smile.

Tony knew fifteen minutes wasn’t a long time (and was frankly quite quick for the NHS’s ambulance service), but he was certain the next quarter of an hour was going to feel like a lifetime – especially for Pat.

\---

His body was failing him. Pat couldn’t stop shivering and he longed to be wrapped up in a million blankets, yet he knew he was actually burning hot. Not to mention the constant pain that was making even breathing a chore, and the fact he still felt horribly sick even though he’d brought up everything in his stomach.

He was so weak and sore and shaky that he didn’t even process that he was only wearing his underpants. Pat was usually very reluctant to strip off in front of the others, but right now he felt far too shit to be body conscious.

All he wanted was for the ambulance to arrive. Then maybe he could get some pain relief, because he wasn’t sure he could deal with this pain for much longer.

\---

“Right, you lot,” John said, taking a flannel from Pat’s overnight bag and running it under the cold tap. “I want you to do what I fucking tell you when the ambulance gets here, as there won’t be time to fuck about bickering, all right?”

John sounded so forceful that Mike wouldn’t dare argue. He nodded his head, watching the others do the same thing.

“Right, so, I’m going to go up to the hospital with Pat in the ambulance, and you lot need to stay here. I don’t want to deal with you up at A and E too.”

Mike wasn’t surprised that John wasn’t addressing Pat; Pat looked so bad he clearly wasn’t listening to a word they were saying, and simply shivering on the floor and sobbing shakily. John carefully wrung the flannel out and pressed it against Pat’s forehead, the action making Pat shiver violently and grimace, before looking up at Mike and the others.

Brian looked offended at the implication that they were all annoying burdens, but he didn’t say anything.

“Will you phone us?” Tony asked.

“Of course I will,” John said, surprisingly soft.

John straightened his back, only for it to crack loudly. He groaned and screwed his face up.

“Fucking hell,” he muttered, letting go of Pat and rubbing his back.

“Of course you’re going to do your back in hunching up like that, John,” Brian said. “Stand up and have a stretch. I can sit with Pat for a bit.”

“Really?” John said, obviously remembering Brian’s reaction to seeing Pat vomiting.

“Yeah,” Brian said, nodding.

Looking grateful, John stumbled to his feet, and leaned backwards until his back crunched. He sighed and started to rub his back again.

“Cheers, Brian.”

“It’s no problem,” Brian said, looking slightly apprehensive as he took John’s place beside Pat.

The flannel had slipped off of Pat’s forehead, so Brian put it back in place, water dripping onto the floor. Pat groaned and tried to push it away.

“C-Cold,” he moaned, his voice weak and hoarse.

“You need it to help your fever, Pat,” Tony said.

As he shivered, Pat started to groan, his face contorting into an expression Mike had seen before (specifically, when he threw up backstage). So it didn’t take a genius to work out what was wrong.

“Pat?” Brian said.

“He’s going to throw up,” Mike said, and Pat nodded in his direction, his mouth clamped shut.

“Shit, well let’s sit you up, then, Pat,” Brian said, and he slipped his arm behind Pat’s shoulders and began to help him ease into a sitting position.

Pat winced, looking dizzy as he was moved slowly upright.

“That’s it, Brian,” John said.

“Slowly,” Mike added, wanting to make it clear that Brian had to take his time.

But even going this slow seemed to be too much for Pat. He gritted his teeth and hissed through the pain, but then Mike saw him heave and his cheeks bulged. He was obviously about to puke, and Mike wasn’t the only one who noticed. And then everything happened in a blur.

Looking panicky and obviously scared of being vomited on, Brian launched himself backwards, letting go of Pat. The sudden loss of support overbalanced Pat, sending him falling backwards and banging his elbows against the floor. The action jarred Pat’s whole body, and he opened his mouth and puked down his chest as he let out a scream – a proper cracking, sobbing cry of pure agony that made Mike shiver – before slumping backwards, his head thumping against the floor. His eyes were shut; he looked like he was asleep, but Mike knew he had actually fainted.

“Shit!” Tony cried, and Mike didn’t even manage to say that. Like John, he was too shocked to think of anything to say.

“Well fucking done, Brian!” John Farrow snapped, rushing back over and dropping to his knees.

Brian had frozen, holding his hands up like he was surrendering, his mouth gaping. John tapped Pat’s face with his surprisingly shaky fingers, but he didn’t get a reaction.

“This really is the last fucking thing we needed,” John said, more to himself than anyone else. “What the fuck were you thinking, Brian?”

“I, I didn’t mean to,” Brian said, his voice slow. “I... I just...”

“You just caused him so much pain it made him fucking faint!”

“I’m sorry, I—”

“That’s not really the point, is it, Brian?” Tony said, his eyebrows raised and his hands clenched into fists. “Sorry won’t fucking help Pat.”

Brian stared between the rest of them, his eyes wide. He stared at Pat, limp and unresponsive on the floor, and Mike wondered if he was going to cry. But then he got to his feet and went and stood with Mike, John and Tony. He stuffed his hands into his pockets, hanging his head like he was ashamed; seeing this seemed to make John satisfied, but he didn’t say anything. Instead, he started shaking Pat’s shoulder. But Pat didn’t move. He was clearly unconscious.

As he stared at his unconscious friend, Mike tried to delve into his memory, searching for the stuff he remembered from his first aid classes. Thankfully, something came to him.

“I think we need to put him in the recovery position,” Mike said, clearing his throat. Beside him, John nodded in agreement.

“The what?” Tony said. Mike almost rolled his eyes, amazed at how thick Tony could be.

“The recovery position. You put people in it when they’ve fainted so they can breathe properly.”

Tony nodded, but he still looked blank. John, however, looked impressed, and Brian just looked grateful that there was something they could do. Mike turned to John, and watched their manager nod his head.

“Do it,” he said, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

Swallowing hard, Mike kneeled down beside Pat and was immediately struck by how much worse he looked this close up. But then he tried to remember what he was doing, despite how much he felt like puking with fear. He ran through it a few times in his head, and was relieved to find he could remember every step. So Mike took a deep breath and started to put Pat’s limp limbs into the right positions.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Brian staring at him. Mike was certain that Brian wanted to help, but wasn’t out of fear of hurting Pat again. Mike knew it wasn’t Brian’s fault, that it was an accident, but he couldn’t help but he secretly glad that Brian wasn’t going anywhere near their friend.

John picked up the flannel from the floor and began to run it under the tap, presumably giving it a wash. John Farrow sat down on the closed toilet seat and watched Mike intently, clearly interested in what he was doing.

“Can I help?” Tony asked, shuffling towards him on his knees. “I’ll be careful.”

“Course you can,” Mike said, smiling.

And, sitting back on his haunches, Mike began to guide Tony through the recovery position. Tony was a little clumsy, but as long as he didn’t do what Brian had just done, that was good enough for him. Tony had just reached the stage where he had to roll Pat onto his side when Mike realised they weren’t doing this right.

“Hang on, we need to roll him the other way,” he said, frowning. “We don’t want to put any more pressure on his appendix.”

“So you agree, then?” John said. Mike turned his head and saw John looking tense as he rubbed his back again.

“Yeah,” Mike nodded. “I can’t think of anything else it could be.”

“I know, that’s what I thought,” John said. “I really wished I could though.”

Mike sighed. “I know what you mean.”

Nodding, Tony moved to Pat’s other side and started again. Soon, Pat was lying in the recovery position, and Tony was looking rather impressed with himself. Mike had to wonder why Tony had volunteered to do this, as it wasn’t really in his nature.

And, as though he had read Mike’s mind, Tony said, “I just wanted to help.”

Mike stared at him, and was amazed to see Tony’s eyes shining with unshod tears. And then Tony sniffed and clapped his hand on Mike’s shoulder, and smiled weakly... and then his eyes focused on Pat, and the smile slide from his face.

\---

The hotel staff must have let them into the building, because the next thing John knew there were three paramedics walking into the bathroom. John stood up, his sore back crunching and shooting pain down his back, watching Mike, Tony, John and Brian move out of the paramedics’ way.

They were two men, one older, one very young, and one young woman. The older man was obviously in charge, because he was the one who introduced the three of them to John.

“Hello, my name is Michael,” he said. “This is Sophie, my ambulance technician, and Daniel, a junior paramedic. Now, we were told of a young man with suspected appendicitis.” Michael trailed off as he looked down at Pat. “I assume the situation has deteriorated.”

John knew he was in charge, so he nodded. “Yeah, he got his stomach jarred and the pain made him faint. Mike here said we should put him in the recovery position, and we did, but he hasn’t woken up yet. That was about... ten minutes ago.”

“I see,” Michael said, kneeling down beside Pat.

Sophie put down the large bag she was carrying and joined him on the floor, beginning to dig through the bag. Daniel, who had a stretcher under his arm, crouched down at Pat’s feet, placing the stretcher on the floor.

John watched the paramedics talk amongst themselves, babbling in medical jargon that went straight over his head. Sophie took out a thermometer and stuck it in Pat’s mouth, whilst Michael put a blood pressure cuff around his arm. Once they both read the results of their gadgets, they both looked alarmed.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Mr Quid has very low blood pressure,” Michael said. “And his temperature is far too high.”

“I see.”

Daniel took a pair of ice packs out of the bag, and tucked one between Pat’s thighs and rested the other on his chest.

“Do you think we need oxygen?” Sophie asked Michael.

He nodded. “That seems the best idea. It should help his blood pressure.”

“I’m on it,” Sophie said, and she rushed out of the bathroom.

John must have looked as anxious as he felt, because Michael smiled reassuringly. “With the icepacks reducing his temperature and the oxygen helping his blood pressure, we should be able to stabilise Mr Quid’s condition.”

John nodded, still rather dazed.

“While we’re waiting for Sophie, I need to ask you some questions about Mr Quid,” Michael said. “Is that all right?”

“Yeah?” John said, still not with it.

“Right, so had Mr Quid been complaining of any symptoms before he got to the stage during which you called the ambulance?”

“Well he was bloody stubborn about it, but I know he’s had a stomach ache all day. Since at least seven in the morning, I think.”

John glanced at the others, all of whom nodded.

“Yeah, he looked like shit on the bus this morning, didn’t he?” Tony said.

“And he’s been getting worse all day,” Mike added.

“Not that he’d have admitted that,” John muttered.

“Right, an increasingly severe stomach ache,” Michael said as Daniel scribbled down notes in shorthand. “Anything else?”

“Well he’s been shivering all day, and then his temperature went right up,” John said, thinking hard.

“And then he threw up backstage,” Tony said.

“I see,” Michael said.                                        

He looked like he was going to say something else, but was interrupted when Sophie returned, carrying a massive oxygen cylinder in a bag and a bulky mask.

“Thanks, Sophie,” Michael said, helping her put down the oxygen cylinder next to Pat.

With Michael’s help, she strapped the mask to Pat’s face and turned the dial on the cylinder. It made a low hissing sound, and the mask steamed up as Pat breathed into it.

John noticed that Brian was looking away from Pat, and Tony looked rather scared all of a sudden. John didn’t blame them; seeing Pat with a huge piece of rubber strapped to his face seemed to make this situation look as serious as it actually was.

“So we were talking about symptoms, weren’t we?” Michael said. “What I was going to say was that his pattern of symptoms fit the suspected diagnosis. I agree that it is almost certainly appendicitis that’s affecting Mr Quid, but I need to do a quick test just to make sure.”

Curious as to what this test would entail, John watched Michael as he shuffled closer to Pat, and noticed that the others were doing the same thing. Michael flexed his gloved fingers and began to press them against Pat’s abdomen, digging the tips of his fingers into the soft flesh of his stomach. He started just under Pat’s ribs and moved down his stomach, prodding and poking Pat’s abdomen. When Michael reached the red, swollen area, his fingers didn’t seem to press as far, and he grimaced. John winced, immensely glad that Pat wasn’t awake right now, because that looked like it must have hurt like fuck.

“His appendix is hard and swollen. In fact, I think we need to rush. I’m not sure how much longer he’s got before his appendix ruptures; it was really swollen.”

Following his words, the paramedics moved faster as they took Pat’s vital signs again. But John just felt sick, because it had never occurred to him that appendixes could rupture. Tony seemed to be having the same thoughts.

“Um, can I ask what would happen if it did... rupture?” Tony asked, surprisingly timid.

By now the paramedics were easing Pat onto the stretcher, so Michael didn’t look up as he said, “If it did, his abdominal cavity would fill with pus. The infection would spread and he’d develop something called peritonitis, which is a lot more serious and far more painful. But it shouldn’t get that far. Mr Quid should be treated before that even has the chance to happen.”

Tony didn’t look reassured in the slightest, but he nodded and gave the paramedic a very forced smile. Mike patted his shoulder.

Resting the oxygen cylinder on Pat’s legs, Michael and Sophie picked up the stretcher. Behind them, Daniel stuffed their equipment back into the bag and swung it over his shoulder.

“Right then,” Michael said. “We can only take one other person in the ambulance. I assume none of you are Mr Quid’s next of kin.”

“You’re right there,” John said. “But I’m his manager. I’ll come with him.”

John had expected Michael to argue with him, but the paramedic simply smiled and told him to follow after them. John couldn’t help but feel a tad disappointed; what with the stress, he kind of wanted an argument.

Michael, Sophie and Daniel had already left the room, so John knew he had to hurry. So he approached the rest of Thotch and said, “I’ll call you as soon as I can. Stay here, don’t do anything stupid, and try not to worry.”

As they all smiled weakly and said goodbye, John realised how hypocritical he had sounded; because he was hardly calm, was he?


	4. Chapter 4

An awkward silence fell over the four members of Thotch as they stood in the bathroom, and it made Brian feel very uncomfortable. Well, more uncomfortable than he already was.

He glanced around the room, staring at the puke and water all over the floor, the sodden flannel bundled in a heap by the sink and the spot where Pat had been laying. The bathroom stank of vomit, but Brian didn’t think he could get any more nauseous than he was right now.

Tony was the first one to break the silence.

“What the fuck are we meant to do now?” he said, his voice trembling. “How can we just wait here for fuck knows how long while poor Pat’s having fuck knows what done to him at the fucking hospital? How can—”

Mike cut Tony off, placing his hands on his shoulders. “I don’t know, but I’m sure we’ll manage. It’d be a waste of time for us to go to the hospital, anyway.”

“Why?” Brian asked.

“Because Pat’ll be in surgery for hours, and we’d just be stood around waiting and worrying up there instead. At least here we can be a bit more comfortable while we wait, can’t we?” Mike said, watching John smile and nod. At least one of them was reassured by his words.

“Yes, I see your point,” Tony said, breathing heavily.

Brian didn’t want to agree, but he knew Mike was right. After all, they would still be as stressed, scared and tired wherever they were. And he trusted John to do what he had promised; he just hoped it wouldn’t take too long.

\----

As he was led into the ambulance, John sat on the fold-down chair and watched the paramedics lay Pat on the bed. They fastened his stretcher to the bed so it couldn’t slide off, and started checking all of his vital signs again.

John clasped his trembling hands together, barely noticing the shooting pains in his back. He was so tired, but he knew there was no way he would be able to sleep. He couldn’t remember a time when he’d been this anxious for this long; in fact, he had a lot of respect for people with anxiety disorders, because living like this all the time must have been fucking horrible.

Despite his fever, Pat looked so pale; he was really pale at the best of times, but ‘white as a sheet’, as cliché as it was, really was the only way John could describe his current appearance. His paleness was only compounded by the way his long hair was stuck flat to his skin with now-dry sweat, making his hair look disgusting.

And then John wondered why he was so interested in Pat’s hair when his fucking stomach looked so awful. Just above his right hip, his skin strained over a bulge that John knew was his massively swollen appendix. And then he felt really, really sick when he remembered that his appendix was full of pus.

In an attempt to calm his nausea, John looked away from Pat’s swollen stomach and stared at the paramedics. Daniel was attaching plastic disks with wires sticking out of them to Pat’s chest, and John knew they were leading to the heart rate monitor.

Sophie took out a clear plastic pouch and hung it from one of the poles sticking up from the corners of the bed. It was full of clear liquid and had a clear plastic tube sticking out of the bottom of it.

“It’s a saline solution,” she said, seeing him looking at her. “It’s nothing to worry about. It’s just so we can give Mr Quid some fluids, given that he appears to be very dehydrated.”

John nodded. “Yeah, he must be. I haven’t seen him drink all day.”

“Yes, exactly,” she said. “So this will just pump fluids into his blood and should quickly rehydrate him.”

Feeling a little better now he understood what she was doing, John watched as Sophie inserted a needle into the back of Pat’s hand and attached it to the tube leading to the bag. It was oddly mesmerising to watch the liquid slowly drip out of the bag and run down the tube, and John started when someone spoke to him.

“Would you like a blanket, Mr Farrow?” Michael asked, looking away from Pat. “It’s very cold and you’re only partly dressed.”

Puzzled, John looked down at himself. Even though he had his dressing gown on, he was only wearing knee length shorts on his bottom half, and his feet were bare. Trust him to remember a dressing gown but forget fucking shoes. It must have been nearing freezing point outside, but John didn’t feel cold in the slightest; it must have been the adrenaline.

“I’m all right, thanks,” he said, forcing himself to smile.

“All right, but tell me if you need one,” Michael said. “I don’t want another patient to deal with right now.”

 _Fair enough_ , John thought, and he nodded.

By now, Daniel had finished sticking the disks to Pat’s chest, and he switched on the bulky machine. It started to whirr and beep loudly, presumably in time with Pat’s heartbeat. The reading on the screen was 48 BPM.

Seeing his confusion, Sophie said, “Forty eight beats per minute is a bit low for a normal heart rate, but totally normal for someone unconscious. So, at the moment anyway, it’s nothing to worry about.”

John smiled weakly, and suddenly noticed that his nausea had gone away. At least something was going right, which made a fucking change.

\---

Pain. Pain was what first penetrated the comfortable darkness of his unconsciousness, shooting through his body until his fingers and toes tingled uncomfortably. And it was searing, burning, throbbing pain in the pit of his stomach that made him want to cry or vomit, or possibly both. He wanted to cry out, but he didn’t have the strength. He was so tired...

And then he started to hear people speaking; there were two voices, and he didn’t know who either of them were. They didn’t seem to be making any sense, and all Pat heard was medical jargon. There was something strapped to his face, tight straps digging into the skin behind his ears. His mouth was dry and something hissed whenever he breathed. He could feel the thing he was laying on swaying, and he knew he wasn’t in bed at the hotel. His eyelids fluttered, and Pat found himself staring up at bright strip lights that he had never seen before. Yes, he definitely wasn’t at the hotel.

But then where was he?

His head throbbed, and there was a sharp pain in the back of his hand, yet they were both nothing compared to the pain in his stomach. He knew there was something seriously wrong, but he didn’t know what. He had probably known what it was before he blacked out, but he couldn’t remember now. He couldn’t remember what made him pass out, either. He could barely remember anything; the pain seemed to be making his brain go weird.

“Pat! You’re awake!”

That was John Farrow. Pat turned his head to the side, the action partly restricted by the thing on his head, and saw John sat next to him. There was a window behind John, and lights and objects were moving past them really quickly. Or was it them that was moving?

John looked exhausted and scared, but he was smiling.

“Hello, Pat,” he said.

“Where ‘m I?” Pat asked, his voice weak and muffled by the thing covering his mouth.

“You’re in an ambulance, Mr Quid,” a woman said, stepping towards him and blocking John from his line of sight. “We’re taking you to hospital. Mr Farrow here has come with you to keep you company. I’m Sophie, by the way. This is Michael,” she added, gesturing towards a man Pat could just about see without moving his head.

“The others are back at the hotel, Pat,” John said. “They’ll come and see you later, when you’re better.”

“Better?” Pat mumbled.

“Don’t you remember, Pat?” John said, and he sounded concerned. “We think you’ve got appendicitis.”

Now he understood. It was as though John saying that word had triggered his memory, because Pat suddenly remembered lying on the bathroom floor, sobbing and almost screaming with pain and hearing John say that word. And he knew appendicitis was fucking serious. He swallowed hard.

“Now, Mr Quid,” the man called Michael said. “I need to ask you about your pain. First of all, would you like some pain relief?”

Pat nodded, amazed at the thought that something could make this sickening pain go away.

“Right, we can do that,” he said. “Sophie is going to give you some painkillers intravenously, and you should start to feel their effects in five to seven minutes, all right? And I also need to ask you to rate your pain for me on a scale of one to ten. If one is no pain and ten is pain so bad it makes you faint, where would you rate your pain right now?”

Pat thought hard, hating how his stomach pain was making thinking harder than it should be.

“‘Bout... n-nine,” he said, his throat horribly sore and his voice hoarse.

“I see,” Michael said, and Pat hoped the painkillers would work. He couldn’t deal with this for much longer.

\---

By the time they arrived at the hospital, Pat was unconscious again. But this time it was just because the painkillers had knocked him out, so John knew that wasn’t much to worry about.

John had to hurry after Pat as they wheeled him through A and E, eventually dumping him in a cubical. John sat down on one of the horrible orange hospital chairs and stared at Pat, who looked even worse under the bright lights of the hospital, as a nurse took his vital signs and adjusted his oxygen mask.

Only a couple of minutes later, a doctor came into the cubical, carrying the notes Daniel the paramedic had written.

“Patrick Quid?” he said.

“That’s him,” John said, gesturing towards his unconscious friend. “I’m John Farrow. I’m his manager.”

“I see. I’m Dr Richards, and I’m on night shift in Accident and Emergency. Now, these notes suggest a potentially life threatening condition, so Mr Quid needs to have an X-ray to confirm the source of his infection before we operate.”

John nodded, despite wanting to snap at the doctor for stating the fucking obvious.

“Right, so I need to escort Mr Quid down to the radiology department. If you could wait in the waiting area, you’ll be informed of the diagnosis and shown to the correct waiting area if surgery is required.”

John nodded again, wishing he would just get on with it.

Luckily, he did. Which was when John found himself getting a little tearful as Pat was wheeled out of the cubical, because he had to worry that something was going to go wrong.

\---

“I wish the telly didn’t sign off for the night,” Brian muttered.

They were all sat in Tony’s hotel room, literally watching the clock. Tony was sat crossed legged on the bed, hunching forwards to try and stop his stomach churning with anxiety; it wasn’t helping, but he didn’t have the energy to move. Mike was sat on the end of the bed, and John was lying on a pile of blankets on the floor, absentmindedly playing with the handle on the door of the mini bar. Brian was sat on the chair at the desk, staring at the blank TV with a disappointed look on his face.

“How come?” Mike said, his voice going high pitched as he stifled a yawn.

“Because watching TV is a really good way to pass the time. If only there was something on the telly, then this time might go a bit faster.”

“Trust me, Brian,” Tony said, wearily rubbing his hands across his face. “Time never does what you want it to. We want it to go quickly, so it’s going to drag on, and on, and on.”

“If it’s any consolation,” Mike added, “I bet time’s going even slower for Pat and John.”

“How do you think he’s doing?” Brian asked.

Mike shrugged his shoulders. “I’m not sure. He might’ve already gone in for surgery by now.”

“But the why hasn’t John phoned us?”

“We don’t know, Brian!” Tony snapped. “We don’t know any more than you. We’re just fucking guessing, aren’t we, Mike?”

Mike sighed. “Yeah, we are, Brian. But I really do think that John’ll phone soon.”

As Tony tried to calm his sudden surge of anger, he looked at Brian. Even though Tony knew Mike was just bullshitting, Brian looked like Mike words had reassured him – either that, or Brian was bullshitting too.

\---

John wasn’t the only person in the waiting room, but it was so quiet in there that he might as well have been. In fact, it was so quiet that when a nurse called his name, her voice actually echoed.

“John Farrow?”

John looked up so sharply his neck clicked. “Yeah?”

“Dr Richards told me to tell you that Mr Quid does indeed have acute appendicitis, and has been rushed in for surgery. His appendix hasn’t ruptured, so the surgery should take approximately three hours. If you would like to go to waiting room ‘J’, someone will inform you when he comes out of surgery.”

“Thank you,” John said, relieved and disturbed at the same time; somehow, hearing the diagnosis made Pat’s condition seem even more serious.

The moment the nurse left him alone, John jumped to his feet and hurried out of the waiting room. The soles of his feet stung as he walked along the freezing cold lino, and he wanted to kick himself for forgetting his shoes.

John rushed through the hospital until he found the payphone. Tucking the phone between his chin and his shoulder, he dug the hotel’s flier out of his pocket and dialled the number. The phone rang for several minutes before someone picked up, which wasn’t surprising, given that it was three in the morning.

But, eventually, someone answered, and they put Brian through to Tony’s hotel room. He just had a feeling that they were in there, and, luckily, he was right.

Tony answered quickly, and sounded knackered yet hyper as he said, “Hello, John.”

“Hello, Tony.”

“How is he?” Tony asked.

“Pat’s just gone in for surgery now, mate,” he said.

“That’s great,” Tony said, clearly relieved; in the background, the others sounded relieved too. “How... how long will it take?”

“Well, his appendix hasn’t burst, so the doctor thinks it’ll take about three hours.”

John could hear Brian talking in the background; he couldn’t hear exactly what he was saying, but the tone of his voice made it obvious that he was bugging the hell out of Tony.

“That’s good,” Tony said, and John was sure he was smiling. And then he sighed and hissed, “For fuck’s sake, Brian, I’ll tell you in a minute!” Brian sounded pissed off as he mumbled something, and Tony sighed again. “Sorry about that, John. Brian’s just pissing me off.”

“I gathered that,” John muttered. “Anyway, it’ll take three hours, give or take. And then he’ll need to be in the recovery room for a couple of hours before anyone’ll be allowed to see him.”

“Why?”

“Haven’t you ever been to a hospital, Tony?” John said, having to use a lot of restraint to keep the biting sarcasm out of his voice. “That’s what they all do. You can’t see them until they’ve come ‘round, so the doctors can keep an eye and check they’re all right after the op.”

Tony sighed. “But _then_ we’ll be able to see him, right?”

“Yeah, you will, mate,” John said. “Look, I’ll phone later, all right.”

“All right,” Tony said. “Bye, John.”

“Bye, mate,” John said, and he put the phone down.

He stared at the map on the wall, and then headed off to the cafeteria. He was horribly thirsty, and hoped a coffee from one of the vending machines would quench his thirst, keep him awake and help pass the time all at the same time. Because he knew that this time was going to fucking drag.

\---

Everything was hazy. Just like earlier, he felt dazed and out of it, but not for the same reason. In the back of the ambulance, it had been sickening pain that was making him feel spaced out, but now there wasn’t any pain; all Pat could feel was a warm numbness throughout his whole body. It was a weird feeling, yet also rather nice.

He wanted to open his eyes, but his eyelids were far too heavy. In fact, everything felt heavy, his limbs limp and numb. But he didn’t care. All he wanted to do right now was sleep.

\---

A while later (Pat had no idea how much time had passed), he was lying in bed and listening to a nurse tell him about his operation. Apparently, he was going to have a rather big scar when it had healed, but he couldn’t feel the pain the massive cut must have been causing. He still couldn’t really feel anything thanks to the high dose of painkillers being pumped into his blood.

The nurse also told him that it was going to take a while for his anaesthetic to wear off, which certainly explained why he felt so groggy.

“When you’re a bit less groggy, we’ll move you onto a proper ward,” the nurse said. “And you’ll be able to see your friends.”

Pat did his best to smile, and she smiled back.

“G-Great,” he mumbled, genuinely looking forwards to seeing John and the rest of the band again; he’d missed them, and wanted to thank them for looking after him for that awful period of time in the night when he’d felt so ill and been so scared...

There was light coming through the window at the end of the ward, and Pat was amazed when the nurse told him it was seven o’clock in the morning. It was bizarre to think of how much time had gone by; this time twenty four hours ago, he had woken up with a bit of a stomach ache. And it was amazing, and rather horrifying, to think of how much had happened in just one day.

\---

It was with a feeling of upmost excitement that Tony got into the taxi. He was fucking exhausted, but he didn’t care anymore. He was just so relieved that Pat was all right, and he didn’t bother trying to pretend this was about the band this time; he was relieved simply because he cared about his friend.

John had phoned the four of them about fifteen minutes ago, and told them that Pat’s surgery had been a success, and he had just been let out of the recovery room. Apparently, he had been in to see him, and Pat had been pleased to see him, if rather groggy. Tony wondered how that would make him look, and was certain it would be amusing to see.

As they were driven up to the hospital, John and Brian kept almost nodding off, but Tony and Mike were still far too alert to give into their fatigue. The pair of them hadn’t slept at all in the night, and Brian and John only managed about ten minutes before they kept waking up and asking what time it was.

The night had dragged on, just as he had feared. But it was finally over, and they were going to see Pat, who was all right. And he was so relieved that Pat was going to get better that he found himself having to blink back tears.

\---

John met the other four members of Thotch out the front of the hospital, where everyone had their fag breaks. They all looked as knackered as he felt, but they also looked excited. It was at moments like this that John knew the five of them were real friends, because they really cared about each other. They weren’t just a band; they were friends.

“Hi, guys,” John said as they approached him.

“Hello,” Mike said, and John smiled.

“Hi,” Brian said, yawning.

“Can we see Pat, then?” Tony said, as blunt as John usually was.

“Come on, then,” John said, smiling. “I’ll show you to his room.”

\---

John led them through the hospital, and none of them talked. Brian didn’t know why they were silent, but he presumed it was because no one had anything to say. They went up stairs and along corridors and up in lifts, but they eventually got to the right ward. Pat was in a side room, so they followed John down to the end of the ward, where the room was located. John went in, and Brian had to take a deep breath before following after him.

With some apprehension, he entered the room, and then Brian just stood there, staring at Pat. His friend was lying on his back in the bed, wearing an ugly hospital gown. He actually had some colour in his cheeks, and he wasn’t shivering anymore. A nurse was in the room, reading Pat’s chart. There were tubes up his nose instead of an oxygen mask, which Brian preferred, as it meant he could see his friend’s face. Pat had a needle sticking out of the back of his hand, obviously pumping him full of painkillers (and explaining why he his eyes were so unfocused). But the biggest thing was that Pat was awake, looking at them, and smiling. He was smiling.

“Hi, Pat,” he said, sinking into one of the chairs.

Tony sat beside him, looking so relieved Brian wondered if he was going to faint.

“H-Hello, Pat,” he said, stuttering slightly.

“’Lo,” Pat said, looking between the pair of them. His voice was weak and slightly slurred, but Brian didn’t care. Pat’s eyes focused on John and Mike and he smiled. “Hi, guys.”

Mike and John didn’t say anything, but their smiles told Brian they were as relieved as he was.

John Farrow came and stood behind Brian, leaning his hands on the back of his chair. “How’re you feeling, Pat?”

“M-Much better,” Pat said slowly. As Brian looked at him, the smile gradually slid from his face, and he suddenly looked serious. “Thank you, all of y-you. Th-Thanks so much.”

“It’s all right, Pat,” Mike said.

“We weren’t just going to let you die, were we?” Brian said, trying to make a little joke, but no one laughed.

“You’re our friend, Pat,” Tony said, his voice thickening.

It was then that Brian saw tears in Pat’s eyes. He sniffed and wiped at his eyes, but he was smiling weakly.

The nurse, however, didn’t smile when she noticed this.

“Have you upset my patient?” she said, sounding personally offended. “Get out, all of you.”

And Brian found himself smiling as the nurse practically shoved them out of the room, glad and fucking amazed that everything was going to go back to normal.


End file.
